Roaming the Land While You Sleep
by PurpleCarpetsAgainstViolence
Summary: For thirteen year old Sam, puberty hits hard. When he storms out and accidentally screws up the salt lines, Dean is left to pay the price. Lots of hurt, little comfort
1. Chapter 1

Written for an ancient prompt over at LiveJournal (well, ancient as in promptet half a year ago). I somewhat changed the circumstances, but that's definitely what gave me the original idea.  
Rated for language (hello? Winchesters?) and Dean whump related violence.  
Have you noticed how on last week's episode there was no long, drawn out scene where shirtless!Cas smites Samuel? That should have been your first clue that I don't own Supernatural. Oh, the shirtless Campbell smiting that would be going on...

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"Move your ass, Dean, I'm fucking freezing!"

Dean rolls his eyes at Sammy. When exactly did his sweet little brother with the giant dimples and chocolate sticky fingers start swearing at him? Oh, that's right, around the same time he started insisting on being _Sam_. Sam is a teenager now, which in his world apparently means that he's too old for nicknames or the most basic form of decent manners. Dean almost wants to throttle him, the way he's standing there, back against their front door, all smug and not carrying a single grocery bag.

Sighing, Dean forces his heavy legs to jog the rest of the distance between the two of them and _fuck_, the parts of his feet that aren't frozen numb hurt like shit. Whatever idiot cobbler decided that putting sharp edges on the inside of his boots deserves to die a slow and painful death. So slow and painful that he'll come back a vengeful spirit and Dean can toast his stupid cobbler ass a second time 'round.

Sam's still bitching, when Dean starts working on extracting the key from his jeans pocket with stiff, uncooperative fingers.

Finally, the lock clicks and they both scramble inside. Not that it's really any warmer in there (they'd have to come up with the money to fix the heater that, according to Dean's professional opinion is beyond fixing anyway), but at least they don't have to deal with the ice cold wind anymore.

Oh, the joys of spending the summer holidays in northern Alaska.

"I call first shower!" Sam announces, purposefully bumping into Dean on the way to the bathroom.

On principle, Dean tosses some vague insults in the direction of the closed door, then methodically starts putting away their purchases. Toast into the cabinet with the squeaky door, peanut butter, canned mac'n'cheese, Ramen noodles into the fridge, M&M's and Gummy bears into the drawer that never quite closes.

Feeling is slowly returning to his feet and he's pretty sure that he liked it better when they were numb. The sharp edges aren't just a figment of his imagination; something really is chafing and cutting up his feet. Damn it, he's had these boots since he was fifteen and _now_ his feet decide to have another growth spurt? They don't have the time or the money for that kind of crap.

With a steady stream of curses, Dean manages to get both boots off and…wow. In several places his thick, woolen socks are stuck to his skin with light red blood. Yup, definitely not wearing these boots again. Ever. He'll shoplift something his size, if he has to. Sock number one gets pried off easily enough. The foot is cut up pretty badly, but nothing deeper than a paper cut. Sock number two is a different story entirely. The bloody blotch on his left heel seems a darker red than the rest. Dean's pretty sure that wool stuck to a flesh wound with dried up blood is not exactly a good thing and when he moves the fabric slightly down, he has to stifle a yelp when he feels the tear on his flesh. Right, he's gonna have to pry sock number two off under the shower.

Speaking of showers.

"Sammy, get a move on!"

No response.

"Sam!"

A sort of high pitched groan. What the..? Oh, Jesus.

"Dude, quit jerking off, you're wasting my warm water!"

It takes ten more minutes of yelling ("Fuck off, Dean, I'm gonna be done when I'm done!") and threats ("Dude, I swear to God I'm gonna kick in that door and drag you outa there!") and indignant huffing before the shower is finally Dean's.

They've been at each other's throats constantly, lately. Sam's fault obviously, because Dean remembers being thirteen and there's no way in hell that he was anyway near this impossible to live with.

"Did you check the salt lines?" Dean asks barely five minutes after he got into the shower. Little self absorbed bitch _did_ use up all of the warm water. Again.

Sam answers with an exaggerated eye roll that looks almost painful and wolfs down his sandwich (at least this time he didn't insist on Dean making it for him).

"Noffin's wrong wiff 'e shalt 'ines!"

Oh, and the little shit has the nerve to give Dean crap about _his_ table manners.

"Seriously" Sam continues, washing down his toast with some coppery water from the sink. "Dad did the lines last night, you didn't touch them, I didn't touch them, I'm not getting up to check."

Dean growls and suddenly he isn't so sure that he disapproves of Dad's constant threats to kick the kid's ass.

"Anyway, I'm going out."

Dean almost has to laugh.

"I don't think so, runt."

And there it is again. The patented Sam Winchester Bitch Face. Dean is pretty sure that having that look on your face 24/7 is a surefire way to give yourself a bitch of a migraine. Which in turn probably contributes to the bitchy mood. It's the Viscous Circle of Bitch.

"God, Dean, it's just the arcade down the road."

"Something could still get you."

"Yeah, like what? We're not even here on a hunt. Dad's one block away at the library."

"Something. Could still. Get you."

Sam does that eye roll thing again that looks like it puts so much strain on his optic nerve that he'll probably need glasses by the time he's allowed to vote.

"Dean, other kids go out all the time and nothing bad ever happens to them."

"You're not other kids."

"Because you two safety Nazis won't let me. Nothing's gonna happen to me. God, why are you so _stupid_?"

Sam can tell by the way his brother's eyes flicker around the room that that one hurt. Good. He has Dean feeling inadequate, now all he has to do is play the kid brother card.

"_Please_, Dean?"

Cue, Puppy Dog Eyes.

Dean carefully limps towards their duffel bags under the couch and grabs the Glock Dad gave Sam for his birthday.

"You go to the arcade down the road." He instructs. God, why does he always have to give in to his little brother's whining? "You take the gun with you and you're back by 2200."

"Yes, sir." Sam answers, putting as much teenage, put upon disrespect in the sarcastic reply, as humanly possible.

"Just get outa here."

Dean's just had it with Sam. There is no way in hell that any teenager in the history of forever has ever managed to be such an exhausting, whiney pain in the ass and if the two of them don't get out of each other's hair soon, there's sure to be blood. Lots of it.

"Bitch." Dean mutters under his breath with none of the gruff affection that usually accompanies the insult.

He is in the kitchen with his back towards the front door, staring down the old toaster, willing it to work just one more time, when Sam is getting ready to leave.

Sam puts on his padded hand-me-down boots and jacket and gives the shoes that his brother has simply dropped on the floor next to the couch a kick for good measure.

Neither of the boys notice when Dean's boots crash into the far wall, sending a shower of salt down from the windowsill.

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Agh, I'm having a terrible day (read: week) and writing this was so incredible theraputic. I'm gonna go write chapter 2 right now. Any and all thoughts, suggestions, etc are very much appreciated. ^^


	2. Chapter 2

Dean manages to enjoy the Sam free peace for all of twenty-five minutes before that old, familiar worry starts creeping up in his chest again.

Watch out for Sammy.

Look out for your brother.

Make sure your brother's safe.

Fuck, what on earth possessed him to let Sam out of the house all on his own? He must have temporarily lost his mind.

Dean is already out the front door and several yards down the road, when he feels the cold from the gravelly street shoot lightning stabs of pain through his stocking feet. Cursing, he decides to stand in the door frame instead. Because try as he might, he can't force his cut up feet back into his too small boots and he can't walk the distance to the arcade without them either.

Fucking Alaskan summer, barely managing to stay above freezing temperatures.

It's getting dark outside, but from where he stands Dean can make out the bright lights coming from the arcade. Everything's gonna be alright, he keeps telling himself. Sam's right. It's just a couple of kids playing video games. Millions of kids go out to play video games every day and only a small fraction of them get mauled by vengeful spirits in the process. They came here for Dad to talk to some old shamans, not for a hunt. Dad made sure there were no unexplained deaths with weird patterns in this town or the surrounding area. Everything's gonna be perfectly fine. He's just being paranoid. Nothing's gonna get to Sammy.

Dean settles down on the sofa bed their father sleeps on whenever he is actually home and flicks on the ancient TV. It's supposed to be black and white but ever since Dean tried to bully it into picking up signals from more than three stations, the upper half of the screen has been tinged in green, the lower half in red. He did succeed in getting reception for MTV though (he has to watch it on mute. There's no way in hell that he will ever listen to the Macarena Song or that horrible Mariah Carey lady without feeling the need to take an excessive shower, vomit and salt and burn his ears, but watching the scantily clad background dancers is always a nice distraction, even if the weird colors make them look like he's on a light acid trip).

Nothing's on TV tonight, though. Some nonsense 70's crime show rerun where people with goofy haircuts shoot badly at indestructible cars; some hockey game (because hey, what other sport would you want to play during your summer holidays); a 24/7 news broadcast (huh, so there are presidential elections this year) and MTV is having a summer hits special and the thought of all these people running around in their bathing suits while he's freezing his balls off in the middle of fucking August is just too much to take, scantily clad background dancers be damned.

Sighing, Dean checks his watch for the gazillionth time.

2030.

He told Sammy to be back by 2200. Why on earth did he think it would be a good idea to let the kid stay out so long?

Dean clicks the TV off and pulls the blankets tighter around himself. His feet are freezing, but there's no way that he's gonna put on thicker socks or the boots from hell. He'd rather his toes get frostbite than rip them off when the wool gets stuck to the blood again.

His eyes are slowly drifting shut and Dean's pretty sure that it's not really because he's tired. More like a combination of exhaustion, boredom and cold.

'_Come on, boy, pull yourself together, if I wanted a sissy kid that collapses the second the going gets tough, I'da had daughters.'_

Ugh, Dad's gonna be so pissed if Dean gives himself a head cold because he didn't think to safe money for new boots. He's gonna be even more pissed if he finds Dean asleep while he's officially on Sammy duty and his charge isn't even in the same house.

Need to stay awake.

"I remember everything as if it happened only yesterday. Parking by the lake and there was not another car in sight…"

Yup. Going over Meat Loaf lyrics should keep him occupied for a while. Last year that strategy sometimes even managed to keep him awake for a whole double period of that butt ugly hag Ms. Henson droning on and on about the works of Francis Bacon.

Dean checks his watch again when he gets stuck midway through All Revved Up With No Place To Go ("Ooh, I got to draw first blood…Ooh, I got to draw first blood…I was…something…out on some track…or truck…I was…ah, fuck it.") and he still has almost half an hour to kill before Sam gets back. If Sam decides to be on time. Respecting curfew is apparently also something that a worldly thirteen-year old doesn't really have to do.

Dean tries the lyrics distraction again, but the cold is really seeping through his bones now and his teeth are clattering violently, so he mostly comes up with disjointed humming noises before his defenses finally give in and he drifts off into an uncomfortable sleep.

He doesn't notice the high pitched howl that carries across the small town as the creature starts its nightly hunt; only shifts slightly under his blankets, when the window creeks open under the creature's ghostly claws. The shift in temperature is almost not noticeable, since it's freezing to begin with and he's not awake to see his breath come out in white puffs. Sniffing one last time, the creature makes sure that it can slip past the remnants of the flimsy salt line by the window, before it pushes its eerie presence over the windowsill to land right next to its prey.

"Thank G'd you're back Sammy. C'mon, you m'st be freezin'. Y'can share wi' me."

The creature blinks confused red eyes at its prey that is mumbling in his sleep.

And then it bares its four sets of gaffing fangs and goes for the kill.


	3. Chapter 3

Wow, you people are seriously amazing.  
I promised some of you that this chapter would be up by monday night and low and behold, here it is (well, it's night over here, anyway). You have my incredibly dull professor from hell to thank for that. I basically spent her _entire_ lecture writing fanfiction. Unfortunately for you guys she will only turn up again on friday, so I'm guessing the next chapter will be up on saturday once I'm sober again.  
Okay, let the Dean whump begin.

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Dean wakes to a heavy weight pressing down on his ribcage.

Without opening his eyes he tries to turn over, shake off whatever heavy blanket or backpack or whatever has been dropped on top of him. The moment he tries to shift his own weight, there is a low, threatening growl. Kinda like the sounds Bobby's old Doberman Cohen used to make when you tried to take away his bowl. Sounds that said 'move my bowl one more inch and I'm gonna rip out your throat.' Cohen-like sounds inside their house in northern Alaska so can't be a good thing. Suddenly wide awake, Dean forces himself to stay still.

Immediately, the growl loses some of its warning tone and returns to something more like the sound that Cohen used to make when the bowl was set down in front of him again. Fuck. Dean's the bowl.

He knows that his dad keeps a machete stuffed behind the cushions of the sofa bed. If only he can reach it before the…the wolf? Rabid giant mutt? It's not a werewolf or a black dog, that's for sure. Super strong salt lines and no full moon. Anyway, if he can reach the machete before the _thing_ decides to dig in then he can chop that motherfucker into tiny little pieces.

Thick, fowl smelling saliva drops onto Dean's cheek and runs slowly down the side of his face into his ear. Lovely. He's so gonna waste that son of a bitch.

A loud _mshlf_ that sounds like it's actually licking its lips in anticipation and Dean grabs the machete, tears up the couch cushions in the process and wields it at his attacker.

A loud howl echos around the living room, but the shower of blood and flesh and torn limbs doesn't happen. Dean tries again and watches in horror as the blade goes clear through the beast, leaving behind nothing but hissing steam. Fuck, so it _is_ something supernatural that managed to get past their defenses. Fuck.

It's a hairless, skinny, butt fuck ugly thing. Looks a lot like a chuppacabra. Just bigger and with more teeth. And infinitely more threatening. It's got four rows of shark like teeth for crying out loud.

Growling, the thing lurches forward, going for his throat. Out of reflex, Dean throws a punch and that has even less impact than the machete. He manages to dodge the thing's teeth by a few inches, is already thinking about how he's gonna get to the iron knives in his backpack or the salt in the kitchen when he feels four lines of sharp teeth sink into his left forearm.

Dean's howl almost matches the creature's one from earlier when it bites down harder, forcing its teeth to slice through skin and muscle and bone, the supernatural saliva making the burning flesh feel like it's being frozen at the same time. Dean hears his ulna give with a loud sickening crack, long before he ever feels it.

"Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you."

He tosses out a random bible quote in the desperate hopes that it will have any sort of effect. It doesn't. Wrong mythology. Problem is Dean doesn't really know any Inuit holy texts, so he tries again.

It still doesn't hurt the fucker, but its red eyes light up with understanding. Even if he's not using the right incantations, it certainly understands what Dean is _trying_ to do and wow, if he thought the thing was pissed before.

Hundreds of tiny teeth extract themselves from his forearm ("Mother_fucker_!") and sink in again, a few inches lower into his wrist. The beast gives his arm one, two, three shakes, like a dog that's trying to beat a toy to death and then tosses Dean's entire body from the couch and into the far wall. This time, Dean feels his shoulder sliding out of its socket _before_ he hears the dull plop.

The wall and Dean's head meet with an impressive crack and Dean knows he has lost. Bright splotches start dancing up and down in front of his eyes, blood is gushing from his nose and from somewhere behind his ear and damn it if the creature doesn't look like it's just been served a five star meal.

The front door salt line is just a few feet away and Dean grabs a handful and tosses it in the beast's open jaws. The screech rings excruciatingly loud in Dean's head but the thing dissolves, giving him a few seconds to catch his breath.

He thinks he can hear the roar of the Impala just outside the front door but he knows he's just hallucinating that. This isn't a freakin' TV show where the superhero turns up at the last second to safe his good looking sidekick's ass. Dean somehow screwed up the defenses, didn't check the salt lines and it's only fair that he should be the one to get eaten by a vengeful furless dog monster for it.

He sees the thing re materialize in the kitchen and start its attack again and Dean knows that this time there's nothing he can do to stop it. He thinks of his mom and how he might just get to see her again and then he thinks about how he should stop feeling sorry for himself, because getting mauled has gotta be a thousand times less painful than dying pinned to the ceiling to the smell of your own burning flesh.

The creature licks its lips one last time and Dean figures that he's glad he sent Sammy out to play video games tonight because if he hadn't the thing might have gone for Sammy instead and then the bright blotches in his vision take over and then everything goes black.


	4. Chapter 4

Turns out trains hate me. The minijourney from college to my place took me 2 hours (normally it's 30 minutes tops), but hey, gave me time to pull out my laptop and torture Dean some more. Plus, the boring professor from hell returns tomorrow, so you guys can still count on that saturday update.

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Sam decides to head home around 2215.

He has played every game at least twice and was ready to go back and cuddle up with his blankets and read a book an hour ago. But Dean said he had to be back by 2200, so there's no way in hell that he's gonna make it home _before _that.

There are no lights shining through the windows of their rented one story house. Well, good. If Dean's already asleep then Sam won't have to deal with his older brother's panic attack over his 15 minute delay.

A loud grumble carries down the road and crap, Sam would know that sound anywhere. The Impala. Dad's back. Sam told Dean that he was being an idiot and that Dad wouldn't mind him going out tonight, but he was also firmly expecting to be home long before their father got back from the library and now he's not so sure that Dad will be just fine with him taking off like that. It's not like Sam and Dad are exactly each other's favorite people these days.

Picking up his pace, Sam hurries along the gravelly road and makes it to the front door the same time, Dad jumps out of the Impala.

"Sammy? Are you all right?"

"Geez, Dad, I'm fine. I was just at the arcade down the road."

Sam wants to sound placating, but the stupid nickname catapults him into bitchy teenager mode, before he knows what hit him.

"Just at the…_are you out of your mind?"_

Effortlessly, Sam matches his father's yelling. Dean said he could go out. He was just playing video games, not getting drunk or high. Having to stay inside all summer is so unfair. Spending his summer in this freezing shithole is unfair. Hell yes, he's gonna curse all he wants. Well, Dean and Dad say way worse every day. Dad should get his priorities straight. Dad is being paranoid. Yes, Dean thinks so, too, he's just too scared to say it out loud. This family just sucks. Dad should just –

Dad's hand shoots forward and closes tightly over Sam's mouth. An indignant frown rushes onto Sam's face and he actually contemplates biting, but that's what Sammy would have done. Sam doesn't bite. Sam scowls and gives 'what the fuck' glares.

"You hear that?" Dad whispers.

Sam wants to tell him that there's nothing to hear and that it's just one more sign of Dad's crazy paranoia, but then he picks it up, too. Low, labored breathing from just behind the door and wheezing growls that are coming closer.

"Get the flamethrower." Dad commands crisply and Sam finds himself obeying without thought.

He hears Dad kick in the door, curse and fire several rounds into the dark living room. An affronted screech answers and Dad blindly grabs for the small flamethrower that Sam has dug out of the Impala's trunk.

Dad charges into the small house, curses some more and aims the biting flames at some flesh colored dog-like creature. The thing has blood dripping from its fangs. Fuck. Blood. Dean's the only one in the house. Sam _left_ and made Dean the only one in the house. He tries to charge inside behind his dad but is effectively blocked by the man's broad shoulders.

Another wall of bright, yellow heat from the flamethrower catches the thing in mid jump. It lets out another scream. Even louder than the first one and this time there's fear mixed among the anger in the beast's eyes. Dad steps into the room, raising his weapon once again and the creature dissolves with one final screech. An ice cold breeze rushes out the door, where Dad kicked the salt line in every direction when he burst into the room and Sam shivers violently.

Then it is quiet.

Dad drops the flamethrower and Sam stumbles into the room right on his heels.

"Light."

Sam automatically reaches for the light switch to his right and then they see him.

Dean's in a bloody heap on the floor, not three feet from them. He's not moving.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

The word has been a recent addition to Sam's active vocabulary and most of the time he just uses it to drive home the point that he's not a little kid anymore, but faced with the sight of his unshakable older brother, lying broken on the floor, it's the only word that's even close to appropriate.

"Fuck!"

"Sam, medical kit."

John is still in full on Marine mode while he closes the short distance between the door and his son.

He's relieved to find a strong and steady pulse and lets himself breathe just a little bit easier. Dean is still unconscious though. Blood from his nose is forming a pretty impressive puddle on the floor. A cut right above his left ear is leaking blood down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Right above there is a pretty impressive goose egg and John can see the corresponding dent in the wall above him. Dean's left arm is a mess. The wrist looks like one of Bobby's yard dogs has used it as a chewing toy, there are several bite marks on his forearm, John can make out white bone on the bottom of at least one of them and it looks like it's broken, the whole arm is at an awkward angle. Looks, like a dislocated shoulder. Again.

Sam has laid out the medi kit beside the sofa bed. He's working on pulling off the bloodied sheets and John notices the machete that is sticking out of the torn up cushions.

He scoops up Dean in both his hands. Kid might be almost as tall as him now, but John's got a good fifty pounds on him. Dean lets out a quiet whimper when John wraps his arms around his injured shoulder and damn it if it doesn't almost make John fall apart. It's the sound an injured, trapped animal should make, not his kid.

"Shh, Dean-o, I've got'cha."

"Da'?"

Dean's eyes open and lazily focus on his dad's face.

"Saved my ass…always told S'mmy y' were like batman…"

And then he smiles.

His arm is torn to pieces, the floor is slippery with his blood and he fucking smiles.

John wants to cry.


	5. Chapter 5

As gently as possible, John deposits Dean on the sofa bed and this time Dean manages to stifle any pain filled groans and whimpers.

Sam wraps a couple of their cleaner towels around his brother's torn arm, knowing that they have to take care of the head wound first.

John wipes a wet towel over the cut above Dean's left ear and decides that yup, this is definitely gonna need stitches. Dean flinches away from even the soft touch of the towel. Great. Going at it with a needle is gonna be fun.

"Hey, buddy, how's that old gray noodle doing?"

Dean blinks a couple of times. Not confused, just trying to take stock and come up with a truthful answer.

"Hurts…no concussion though."

John nods and is suddenly overcome by guilt. He has one thirteen-year old who is expertly running a needle through the flame of his zippo and one seventeen-year old who can tell him instantly that the hammering pain in his head is not enough for a concussion. What did he do to these boys? What would Mary think of him..? Ruthlessly, he forces the feelings back down where they belong. He can revisit them later and have an in depth discussion about them with his old friend Jack Daniels. Right now he has to focus.

No concussion is good. Means he can give the kid something for the pain. He grabs a couple of Codeine from where Sam put them on the table and Dean dry swallows them before he can reach for a cup of water.

Blood is still lazily leaking out of the cut, leaving a dark red trail down the back of Dean's shirt. John needs to start with the stitches _now_.

"Drink." He orders crisply and pushes the whiskey bottle that he keeps under the bed into Dean's hand. Dean makes a face and pushes the bottle back.

"'m feelin' sick already."

"Didn't ask about your feelings, son." John basically shoves the bottle between Dean's lips. "Drink."

It looks like it's taking all of Dean's strength to force down even two small sips and John feels like the biggest asshole in the world for doing this, but they need the added effect of the alcohol to make the pain meds kick in before Dean loses even more blood.

John settles behind Dean and runs a tequila-drenched cloth over the deep cut. He has barely managed to put in the first stitch when Dean lurches forward and there go the whiskey and pain pills.

"Sorry…" Dean mumbles once he's done throwing up and Sam tells him it's alright, all the while wiping up the mess from the floor.

John pulls Dean back up into a sitting position, the needle and thread still stuck in his scalp and quickly finishes the stitches. Thick blood is still clotted in his hair, but the blood flow has been stemmed.

He settles Dean against the back of the couch and uses the machete that's still sticking out of the cushions next to Dean's head to cut off Dean's yellow flannel shirt. He thinks he sees a small smirk on the kid's face when it hits the floor. He's always hated that ugly thing.

Noting that they need to find a Goodwill store soon to get some new warm clothes, John moves on to Dean's arm, trying to decide which of the injuries to take care of first. There's too many to choose from, really.

"I'm gonna set your shoulder, now." He announces with more confidence than he feels. "Need anything?"

Dean takes a few shallow breaths, not really feeling like opening his mouth after his stomach decided to turn against him like that.

"Belt." He forces out through barely moving lips.

John nods curtly. He knows it's gotta be bad for Dean to admit that he might need anything to deal with the pain. Wordlessly, he takes off his belt, folds it and gently puts it between his son's waiting teeth.

He thinks about feeding him some line about 'we're gonna do this on three' and then pull the shoulder back into place before he's reached 'two', but there's really no point. This is at least the fifth time that Dean has dislocated his left shoulder. Five times in ten years! The goddamn thing has been popping in and out of its joint ever since Dean completely fucked up his shoulder and arm, shooting his new Mossberg at a werewolf in '86. The thing was about to rip John's heart out. Dean's back was against a wall, the recoil practically shattered the joint, but it distracted the werewolf enough to give John the time to waste it and that was enough for Dean. He was seven years old, god damn it.

Moving quickly, John forces the arm back into its original position, trying not to put pressure on the break in Dean's forearm. Dean groans and bites down fiercely on the thick leather in his mouth.

Sam has curled up on his brother's other side now, wiping a wet towel over the bloody crusts on Dean's face, cooing the kind of nonsense into his ear that John is way too worked up to come up with.

He slowly turns Dean's arm and practically hears the tense muscles in his shoulder scream with the effort.

"That thing bit you." He observes after removing the makeshift towel bandages that are soaked through with blood anyway. Dean nods and John curses. Ghost germs infected bite wounds. Fan-fucking-tastic. "Bite down again."

Dean follows the command without question and then his face loses all last traces of color when John empties his flask of holy water over the bleeding flesh.

John hopes that that's enough and swipes the tequila-soaked cloth over the kid's arm. Sam gives a little yelp when his brother reflexively clamps his hand, probably almost crushing Sam's smaller fingers.

"Almost done here." John grumbles and puts a few stitches into the deeper gashes and wraps the last of their bandages around Dean's arm.

He gives all of them some moments to catch their breath and works on ignoring the silent tear tracks that are running down both his sons' cheeks.

"Anything else, Dean?" he asks, needing to know if there are any potentially life threatening injuries he might have overlooked.

"No, sir."

John really hates himself for what he has to do next, but this has to happen.

"Good, then you tell me right the fuck now what on earth happened in here!"

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Okay, people, quick question: I'm split. Should they (or more importantly: should John) figure out what exactly happened to the salt lines? I'm leaning towards no (just because it feeds my evil Dean takes the blame for everything kink...problems...I've got serious problems) but if you guys think Sam should take some of the blame (storywise. we're not talking morally here) then so be it.


	6. Chapter 6

Wow, so you people seem to be as split on the who-should-take-the-blame question as I am...which confused me further (I even made a pro/con list in class yesterday...) but yeah, I eventually came up with this. Hope you guys like it.

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_„Good, then you tell me right the fuck now what on earth happened in here."_

The tone in John's voice is as drill sergeant as it gets and Dean finds himself responding to it without a second thought.

"I was asleep. Thing woke me. I tried to get it with the machete. Didn't work. Chewed on my arm for a bit, then threw me into a wall. I got it with some salt. That kinda worked. Then I passed out."

Damn it. He is supposed to be stronger than that. He isn't supposed to pass out like a little pantywaist bitch just because of a little bump to the head. Dad scoffs and Dean knows he agrees with him.

"How'd it get in here?"

Dean feels a stab of guilt when he realizes he doesn't have a precise answer for that. Much less one that his dad is gonna like. Dean glances over at Sammy whose eyes are wide and he looks all of ten years old. Dean knows somehow the salt lines got screwed and Sam didn't want to check them and then Dean forgot and he wants to say how sorry he is, but his dad isn't looking for an apology here. He's looking for a report. Short, precise answers.

"I didn't check the salt lines tonight, sir."

He tries to push himself into a more upright position on the couch, square his shoulders, own up to his guilt, like his dad taught him to.

Dad gives Dean a look that speaks of worlds of disappointment and that promises that they'll revisit the issue once he's back on his feet.

"Where was your brother?"

Sam grinds his teeth. Dad already knows where he was. Sam told him and they had a screaming match over it not an hour ago. Dad is just asking Dean to keep torturing him.

"He went out, sir. I told him it'd be okay."

Sam figures that that's about as close to lying to their dad as Dean's gonna get.

"Out where?"

_You. Already. Know._

Sam wants to scream. This is so ridiculous and unfair. Dean is barely managing to stay conscious and Dad keeps throwing these pointless questions at him like it's not enough that Sam already told him. He needs to hear it again from his brother because of this stupid chain of command bullshit. God forbid anyone would simply believe what little Sammy tells them.

Dean's eyes are all over the place, when he answers "He was at the arcade down the road."

"Yeah, and what's your track record like when it comes to taking off and playing video games, huh?"

Sam doesn't know why, but Dad's quiet question turns Dean's pale face completely white, freckles standing out like dark bruises, eyes red and incredibly wide.

They continue with their stupid question and answer game for several minutes. Dad never raises his voice but somehow that quiet accusatory tone is exactly what's needed to take Dean apart, flinging pieces of him all across the room. Sam tries to intervene like Dean usually does when Sam and Dad are having a go at each other but he quickly gets shot down by both older hunters.

_Yeah, Dean, way to go. Stick up for the guy when he's already beating you down._

"We're done with this conversation." Dad finally announces and Dean is impossibly grateful when he's ordered to drag his sorry ass into his own bed. He doesn't think he can stand the blame and disappointment in his dad's eyes any longer. He thought they left those behind in a filthy motel room in Wisconsin, swore to himself that he was never gonna cause _that_ look on his dad's face again...

Dean makes it halfway off the couch before Sam decides to butt in again.

"What? You're just gonna send him off to bed? He needs a hospital, Dad!"

Dean settles back down, because he doesn't have the energy to run interfere and without that he's pretty sure that this…discussion is going to take some time and at the very least he'll be able to physically throw himself between the two of them before it gets really ugly. The mere thought of throwing himself anywhere makes his insides curl…he'll throw himself slowly.

"I say when your brother needs to go to a hospital, Sam."

"He broke his arm!"

Sam's youthful indignation is adorable, really. You break your arm, obviously you must go, see some quack with a messiah complex about it. That's what the normal people on TV do so it must be the universal truth.

"I patched him up."

"Normal people take their kids to a hospital when they get mauled by a wild animal."

"Yeah and whose fault was that in the first place?"

Dean tries to disappear into the cushions. Pointing out how much of a screw up Dean is, is only gonna catapult Sam even higher up into the spheres of misplaced protectiveness and the added volume that comes with that might just be too much. He's not concussed, he doesn't think, but that doesn't mean his head needs that much noise right now.

"I was the one who left, you realize that, right?"

"Yeah, but you're not in charge here, Sammy!"

"Wow, you're such an unreasonable, fu-reaking obsessed SOB."

Dean smirks when Sam pulls back the expletives at the last second. _Good survival instincts there, kiddo._

"You're this close to getting your ass handed to you, boy."

Yeah, 'cause threats of violence work so well on Sam. Dean grabs his idiot brother's hand just in case, anyway.

Sam takes some deep calming breaths, like it's taking a huge effort to keep his voice level, then huffs "whatever. I still think he needs to see a doctor."

_Oh, so we've downgraded from hospital to doctor now. Way to back paddle, Sammy._

"Dean, do you need to see a doctor?"

Dad is still staring at Sam and Dean dutifully shakes his head no.

Dad huffs in a way that makes him sound almost like Sam – or has Sam unconsciously adopted Dad's huffs? – and pulls the sling they kept from Dean's last run in with a dislocated shoulder (just your run of the mill cafeteria brawl and somehow Dean's shoulder didn't get along so well with one of the tables he'd been shoved into and the meddlesome school nurse wasn't satisfied with just popping it back in place. He had to walk around wearing that goofy sling for a week afterwards.) out of their medi kit.

Unceremoniously, Dad wraps the thing around Dean's left arm and shoulder and gives Sam a smug 'happy now?' glare, then sends Dean off to his own bed for the second time that night.

Dean gets up again and Sam tries to shove some Codeine into his free hand. Dean eyes the pills, thinking that he could really need some pain relieve right now, but he catches his dad's frown and shakes his head.

Dad's right. Just because Dean is a little big for him to put over his knee doesn't mean he shouldn't be in pain because of his spectacular screw up.

Thinking that the dull, burning cold ache in his arm is probably gonna keep him up all night, he limps into his room.


	7. Chapter 7

The throbbing shoulder and freezing hot arm wound spend a good portion of the night in an epic battle with his foggy head.

One minute Dean's so groggy that he can't even form a coherent thought and then his eyelids droop and when he's almost gone, enter: lightning stabs of pain in his arm that make the mere thought of sleeping impossible to comprehend.

Dean listens to Sam and Dad clean up his mess in the living room and he thinks that he should be doing that job, but Dad said to go to bed, so who's Dean to question that? At least Sam has dialed down the bitchy-ness to a level that Dad can just about tolerate and after a while it almost seems like they're getting along again.

("Dad, there's something on the floor."

Heavy boots, walking right past Dean's door.

Dad's voice, quietly explaining something. Almost Patiently.

"Ectoplasm? That's a real thing?"

"From where I hit the thing with the flamethrower."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Don't see that every day.")

The cleaning up takes well over an hour. Dean knows, because every time his arm distracts him from nodding off, he counts the seconds, minutes it takes for the pain to subside. When the door finally opens and Sam slips inside to fall into his own bed, Dean manages to get his labored breathing somewhat even.

"Dean, you still awake?"

In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4. In, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4.

Sam buys the act, because Dean is stealthy and was trained by the best and Sam's just a kid.

"This wasn't your fault, you know. One of the salt lines by the window wasn't right…"

Sam talks to his sleeping form, because Sam is just a kid.

Dean can hear the rustle of his brother's blankets. Sam's asleep within minutes. Well yeah, Dean figures. It's past midnight and it's not like Sam has discovered yet that teenagers like to stay up late.

Dean is focusing on his brother's even breathing and it calms him down enough to close his eyes and he's just drifting off, when _Jesus fucking Christ_, his arm is turning inside out. It's tearing and something's ripping and the broken bone is throbbing and it feels like someone is pouring liquid hydrogen over the burning flesh. Fresh bite wounds _really_ aren't supposed to feel that cold.

The light in the living room hasn't been turned off yet, which means Dad's still up, which means Dean must do anything humanly possible to keep from crying out in agony.

He lies awake for most of the night. The light shining in from underneath the door never disappears. Dean notices that his heart is having a hard time beating regularly, but that's probably just shock. Sometime in the early morning hours, the burning in his arm dulls to a cold pounding and his head has stopped hurting completely and Dean thinks that he wants it back. Because he deserves to be in pain. He has one job in this life and he doesn't even manage to do that. What if Sam hadn't gone out? What if Sam had been back early? What if Dean being too lazy and stupid to check the salt lines had got his baby brother killed?

Outside, the sky is finally taking on a grayish white-blue color and Dean figures it might be acceptable to get out of bed. He didn't bother with his clothes last night, so all he needs to do is force another butt ugly flannel shirt over his stiff frame and man, it's torture, moving his arm out of the sling, into the sleeve, back into the sling. Good.

Taking special care to keep the door from creaking loud enough to wake Sam, Dean limps into the kitchen. (Wait. What the fuck is wrong with his feet? Oh, right. Boots. Cuts and blisters all over his feet. Totally forgot about that for a moment) There is a half empty coffee pot on the counter and Dean can tell that it's been sitting there for the better part of the night. His nose crinkles in disgust and he decides that he doesn't need coffee anyway.

"How's the arm, son?"

Sonuva_bitch_, how did Dad suddenly materialize behind him? He should have heard him come up to him, Dean berates himself. What sort of help can he be to his family, if he lets his defenses drop like that, just because of a little pain and exhaustion?

"Better." He croaks. "Cold, though." Wow, what happened to his voice? He really needs some coffee. But none of that sludge on the counter. Nu huh. Not gonna happen.

Dad nods and pours some of the nasty liquid into the cup he's been holding.

"Coffee?"

"Sure."

Dean accepts the mug and forces down some of the vile tasting, cold stuff. Dad doesn't look too happy with his own cup, either. Looking a bit closer, Dad doesn't look too happy, period. He looks rugged and disheveled and every bit as exhausted as Dean feels. He remembers the light that kept shining in through the crack beneath the door to the living room and figures Dad probably didn't get any more sleep tonight than Dean himself did. He wonders what kept his dad up all night, but can't come up with the right words to ask.

They awkwardly drink their coffee, neither one willing or able to actually get a conversation going. Sam emerges from his and Dean's room some time later and he immediately starts his embarrassing concerned little brother routine ("Oh my God, you look awful!", Change bandages and gasp over the painful looking stitches, randomly keep touching Dean's shoulder, "You should _really_ go to a hospital!", "Bla blablabla, blabla!"). Dean lets Sam fuss over him for a couple of minutes, but stubbornly refuses any painkillers.

"You need anything?" Dad asks out of the blue and Dean shakes his head.

Something to make his heart stop beating so freakin' fast, maybe. Or a ghost ball to toss out the door in case the ghost dog returns. But this so isn't the time to be mouthing off to Dad.

"Still feeling like being sick?"

"No, sir."

Dad does that thing again where he is standing in front of Dean one minute and then at the other end of the kitchen the next. Wow, this whole sleep deprivation thing is a pain in the ass. Two small pills are pressed into Dean's free hand. Dean frowns in confusion. What's he supposed to be doing with the Darvocet? Last night, Dad said…Dean is supposed to be…Dad wants him to be…

"If you're sure you won't hurl all over the place again, then take it."

Oh…

Movements are still kinda blurry and then there's Dad's warm hand on the back of Dean's neck, squeezing, making sure Dean is alright and Dean feels himself blushing.

"Try and get some sleep, son."

Dean nods and Dad forces down another cup of the crazy disgusting coffee and snaps his fingers at Sam.

"We're going to the library."

Sam looks positively excited by the idea. Then he realizes that Dean's not moving.

"What about…?"

"Your brother will be fine."

That cold detachment from last night is back in Dad's voice and Dean tries to tell himself that he is just distracted or tired or something. Isn't really sure if he can belief it, though.

"Well, I'm staying here with Dean."

"Sam, I'm not leaving the two of you alone together. Look how well that turned out yesterday."

"But what if the thing comes back for Dean?"

"Not during the day, it won't."

"You don't even know what it is!"

"That's why we're going to the library."

"Well, then why can't Dean come, too?"

"Sam, I swear to God, you move your ass into the car or I'm gonna start fucking counting!"

Sam turns the full on Bitch Face on Dad and Dad's already on edge and Dean knows this is gonna turn ugly if he doesn't do something about it, quickly.

"I think I'm gonna watch the Beavis and Butt-head marathon." He announces. It's not the best interference strategy he's ever come up with, but hey, he's not exactly on top of his game here. "Wanna keep me company?"

Sam scoffs and makes a disgusted face. He probably realizes what Dean is doing but decides to humor him and follows their father out of the house.

Dean is left, standing somewhere between the kitchen and the living room and tries to tell himself that he's okay with hearing the growl of the Impala, taking his family away to carry on doing the job without him.


	8. Chapter 8

It is one of the quirks of living life Winchester style. You spend so much time perched together in tiny motel rooms and crammed back seats, that pretty soon you think that you're about to smash your family's brains out if they don't leave you alone for one goddamn minute. Problem is, the moment Dad and Sam took off for the library, Dean couldn't help noticing how much being left alone _sucks_.

Not that it doesn't make sense to leave him behind; Dad has to figure out what exactly came after them last night. Someone has to watch Sam and Dean just proved that he sure as hell isn't up to that job, so off the two of them went. And Dean has to stay at the house because…because he can't look at ancient books with his messed up arm? Because he can't ride in the Impala with his non-concussion? Because…? Dean has to stay at the house because Dad said so. There you go.

Dean stares at the fridge for several minutes. He's not really hungry, but if he's supposed to be any help for his family then he needs to stay strong, so he forces down some untoasted white, squashy bread.

He thinks that he should probably get out of the bloodstained T-shirt he's still wearing under the flannel and maybe take a shower and get rid of the clotted blood that is making the hair on the left side of his head all spiky, but the painkillers he finally took are making him drowsy and he really doesn't have the willpower to do much more than go back to his room, lie down on the bed and feel sorry for himself some more.

He doesn't know how long he just keeps staring at the puke colored stain on the ceiling right above his head. He knows that it's long enough to make his back hurt like a bitch, though (seriously, what kind of crazy morons sleep on their back voluntarily? Dean would do about anything right now to just be able to turn over and mash his face into his pillow and sleep like a normal person. Fucking sling with the fucking broken bone inside.)

Then all of a sudden there's a hand on his good shoulder and Dean's eyes snap open.

Open? Why were they closed? He wasn't sleeping. He can't keep watch when he's asleep.

"Easy, Dean. C'mon, get up."

It's Dad's voice and there, there's Dad's face in the dark (dark? Holy fuck, how long was he out?) and he doesn't even look all that pissed and disappointed anymore. Distinctly worried, though, and he keeps staring at Dean's cold arm. Holy crap, his arm is freezing.

"What's wrong?" he asks and follows his dad into the living room where Sam is working his way though this week's M&M's. The table by the sofa bed is overflowing with books.

"The thing that attacked you," Dad starts, pointing at a photograph of a pretty crappy drawing of a furless dog. "was a qiqirn."

John sees the confusion in his eldest's eyes that quickly turns into eagerness when he realizes that they're about to discuss the supernatural, before it morphs into something new altogether, when he remembers why they are discussing this particular supernatural fugly in the first place. But the kid does a pretty good job of putting his feelings aside for the moment.

"Aren't qiqirns supposed to be scavengers? Bobby said they run from humans."

"Yeah, well this one doesn't."

Dean nods. John is glad that he doesn't have to have the longwinded discussion he and Sam had over that particular subject at the library a second time 'round. Dad says it's a qiqirn. It's a goddamn qiqirn, no questions asked. Good boy.

"How're we gonna waste it?"

"_We_ aren't gonna do one goddamn thing." John hates himself so fucking much right there. "You finish this."

John can tell that he could be driving white hot daggers into the boy's back right now and couldn't possibly be hurting Dean any more than what he just said. Because what John is essentially saying is that it's Dean's fault he almost got turned into monster chow last night. What he's saying is that Dean won't be forgiven for letting something get past the salt lines until he himself has gotten rid of the thing once and for all. What he's saying by extension is that the same goes for what happened seven years ago in Wisconsin. And John doesn't mean any of it, but he can't bring himself to tell the kid about the chapter he read on what happens to qiqirn bite wounds if the goddamn dog isn't immediately killed by the victim, can't make himself repeat the words, so he lets Dean think whatever Dean is gonna think.

Dean takes in his father's words and whispers a dejected "yes, sir."

John figures he should tell him his reasons, but the pictures the old shaman conjured up of frozen limbs turned a sickening black, before fouling off completely are still too fresh in his mind and he doesn't need to scare the kid with the prospect and anyway, it won't be the end of the world if Dean thinks he needs to prove himself again.

Dad points at the picture again and starts filling Dean in on all he needs to know. Bobby told them everything he knows about qiqirns and keeluts and other stupid dog beings last year, but this time Dean is actually interested.

It's a furless ghost dog. Feeds on blood. Usually dead blood, but this one has apparently moved on to live prey. It's essentially your run of the mill vengeful spirit, only it's a dog so salt'n'burn isn't gonna be an option. They - _Dean_ needs to summon it, trap it inside a pictogram made of hemlock, burn the hemlock and puff, down goes Cujo. Dad is going to help him, be his backup, but he makes it absolutely clear that this is Dean's mess to clean up.

John drops several bags of rock salt, their flasks of holy water and a couple of iron knives in the backpack on the table (just in case) and nods for Dean to get his jacket.

"You ready to go?"

"Wha- _now?_" Dean can't stifle the surprised yelp.

He can see by the way that Sam's shoulders tense that he and Dad already had at least one shouting match over Dad's plan and Sam is ready to stand by Dean if he decides to mention that he can't really walk or move his left arm.

"We can wait until the qiqirn actually kills somebody, sure."

_But we won't, because by the time that happens, your whole arm will have turned into frozen ectoplasm and fuck, no!_

Dean drapes his jacket over his shoulders and grabs for his boots. His right foot makes it halfway into boot number one, then one of the sharp edges cuts right into one of the many blisters and the thought of walking around in two of these instruments of torture is just a fucking thrilling idea.

Maybe he can borrow a pair from Dad. Wait, Dad doesn't own more than one pair of boots at a time. Well, Dean's not gonna bitch and moan that he needs new shoes and can he please kill the son of a bitch tomorrow night?

He kinda wants to die when he forces his foot to fit into the tiny piece of hell that is his right boot and he can't hold back a high pitched, girlish squeak.

"Something wrong, son?"

"No, sir."

John nods and Dean tries to walk without moving his feet and Sam carries their supplies and they all file into the Impala and drive out into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam can tell that Dean is too damn close to freaking out.

He is sitting stiffly in the passenger seat in front of Sam, that one muscle in his jaw working overtime. From time to time it looks like he wants to settle back against the door but then something in his shoulder screams at the added pressure and he jerks back into an upright position. His breathing is all weird (weird as in: you can actually hear Dean breathe), he's tapping his right hand against his knee in an uneasy inner rhythm. At one point Sam is almost sure he hears his brother humming.

Dad is bound to be noticing it too. Not like Dean is doing a particularly good job of keeping his anxiety low key. Being flung across the room by a homicidal naked dog spirit does that to you, Sam figures.

"Settle down, Dean."

Dean stills.

Wow, Dad can be such an ass sometimes.

This whole suicide mission just goes to prove it. Sure, let's throw Dean in the ring with the crazy thing that tried to eat him not 24 hours ago. Oh, don't worry, Sammy, I'm gonna be standing right next to your brother and watch him and I won't do one single fucking thing to help him. Oh, he can't use his left arm? Well, he's just shit out of luck then.

And like always, Dean just sits back and takes it. So what if one of these days his crazy mission to carry out their father's orders will get him killed?

Sam tried to talk them out of this half assed plan. Oh, and how well that turned out. Dean just parroted their father's lines from earlier. 'This thing might actually kill someone if I don't end it right now. Dad's right, it was my fault the qiqirn came after me in the first place.' Never mind that _neither_ of them checked the salt lines. Never mind that if Sam hadn't left to play some stupid video game, they could have taken care of the thing together and Dean's arm wouldn't have been torn to shreds. No, his stupid brother just has to throw himself in front of Sam and take the brunt of their dad's anger and convince himself he deserves it. Sam kinda wants to bang his stupid thick skull against the car window and knock some sense into him. Just, you know, Dean's skull is kinda banged up as it is, so Sam has to content himself with thinking about it real hard.

He mentioned his misgivings to Dad earlier, at the library, after Dad had called some contacts and worked his way through every single one of the giant volumes about Inuit canine ghosts (and Sam's still flummoxed that there is more than one kind. Seriously, what kind of crappy mythology needs five different vengeful dogs?). Sam told Dad that there was no way in hell that Dean was up to fighting that thing right now and Dad told him that he had his reasons and that he wanted to get the fuck out of this town and if Sam didn't shut the hell up they could continue this conversation with Sam over John's knee.

Yeah, threatening your teenage kid with physical violence in a public library. Classy.

Anyway, at the end of the day Sam is the only one in this screwed up family that is capable of rational thought, but why would anybody listen to _him_, so yeah, they are all stuck in the stupid car, driving out into the wilderness so Dean can summon a qiqirn that has randomly decided that it wants live prey, preferably Dean. Makes perfect sense…

They keep driving for almost an hour. The gravel covered asphalt slowly morphs into gravelly back road without asphalt, which in the end becomes nothing more than a frozen path and_ finally_ John pulls the car over.

Dean heaves himself out of his seat. Kid is dead on his feet. John figures he should help him out, but they didn't come here for a cozy family outing, so he stays on his side of the car. Anyway, Dean looks freaked out enough by his brother hovering at his elbow. He doesn't need his daddy to hold his hand.

John calls the boy's name and Dean looks confused for a minute, then nods and walks off in the direction of a couple of hemlock trees. There is something off with his gait John notices and can't quite figure out where the limp could be coming from. If Dean somehow got it into his head last night that he should be hiding his injuries, he's got another think coming.

Sam shuffles after his brother and John thinks about calling him back to wait in the car, but he's got a feeling that all the yelling and threats in the world won't get these two apart tonight and it's not like they're at the dangerous part of the ritual yet. If Sam is for once actually interested in helping out on a hunt then John won't hold him back.

Dean has some trouble unsheathing his Bowie knife with only one hand, but it looks like he waves off his brother's help and somehow manages to cut several branches, arrange them under his good arm and put the knife back into his belt.

John walks them over to a small area, covered with dead, frozen grass, where the flames of the banishing ritual won't be able to harm any of the surrounding trees or – more importantly – the car.

John brought the book he and Sam smuggled out of the library and he watches as Sam quietly hands his brother the paint for the pentagram, all the while shooting hateful glares in John's general direction. John gets why the boy is mad at him, he does. It's not like he doesn't hate himself for making Dean go through all this, but Dean needs to be doing this because otherwise his arm is about to turn into a black icicle and besides, he needs to learn his lesson that he can't just let things get past their defenses without consequences and he needs to learn it now, because John needs to get out of this fucking town that houses these sons of bitches that go around trying to eat his kids.

Dean is already groaning with the effort of putting the hemlock branches in the correct position inside the pentagram and John figures it won't do anyone any good if the boy collapses before they ever get to face the bastard dog, so he gets down on his knees and places the fur talisman and protective herbs on their respective places within the circle. Dean holds out his right hand and John uses his knife to make a small incision on the inside of the kid's palm.

Dark blood drops onto dead wood.

Dean keeps his eyes averted from the blood and starts reciting the short summoning ritual that John made him memorize on the way here. Not that either of them are experts on the pronunciation of this particular tribe's language, but it seems to be close enough.

The temperature drops to several degrees below freezing and wind starts blowing, carrying a high pitched howl and John pulls a struggling Sam back towards the car, just as Dean finishes his incantation with a growled "c'mere, Fido. Here, puppy, puppy. C'mere so I can torch you, motherfucker."


	10. Chapter 10

Hey there, so this is it. The final chapter. I'm sorry for the slightly long-ish wait, but you see, I went on this skiing trip and kinda packed the laptop that didn't have the first part of this chapter on it, (but that gave me the chance to start this other fic that you should totally check out ;) ) but anyway, here we go. Hope you guys like my finale. Drop me a final review on your way out. ^^

00000

Dean clamps his fist tightly around the Zippo in his right hand. It's against the sudden cold. _Not _because his hand is shaking violently and his palm is clammy and he thinks that he might just drop the lighter if he doesn't cling to it with all he's got. Nope. Definitely the cold thing.

The wind is getting stronger, making a few stray leaves and gravel inside the pentagram swirl skyward. Dean squints against the freezing breeze that's whipping his button-less jacket in every direction.

The ear piercing howl rises in volume and timbre until Dean wants to clutch his hands over his ears. Problem is, he kinda only has one hand right now and that's busy holding a lighter and anyway, he isn't some whiny little girl that's scared of the things that go bump in the night.

"C'mon you rabid son of a bitch." Dean growls and as if on cue the wind and the howling stop and there's the qiqirn standing in the middle of his carefully painted pentagram.

It cocks its head slightly to the side in a classic dog-like show of confusion. Again, it reminds Dean of Cohen, Bobby's old guard dog and he makes a mental note to stay away from the salvage yard in the near future. He might just succumb to the overwhelming need to trap one or all of the dogs inside the barn and set it on fire.

Speaking of setting things on fire.

Time to torch the fucker. Dean hasn't come here tonight to play patty cake or make polite conversation. He's here to burn the thing and be done with it.

He tries to step closer to the qiqirn. He sees a flicker of recognition in the beast's eyes and then, remembering its failed hunt, it lets out an infuriated screech and lurches itself at its prey. It doesn't get far. The jump continues for about one foot, then it crashes against the invisible walls of the pentagram, holding it firmly trapped.

But that doesn't matter, because Dean _is_ a whiny little girl and the moment he hears the screech and sees the thing flying towards him, the Zippo slips from his fingers and he is stumbling backwards and he wants to do nothing more than crawl all the way back into the Impala and hide under the emergency blankets with Sammy while their daddy takes care of the big bad wolf.

Images from last night are flashing through Dean's mind in no particular order, screaming with bright colors and the qiqirn screams with rage when it still can't get past the walls of the binding spell. Dean's heart is working itself into a frenzy, beating against the compounds of his chest, trying to jump out through his throat and he figures that he might be well on his way to giving himself a stroke. If strokes are caused by an overly erratic heartbeat. Dean isn't really sure.

His right arm, still immobilized by the sling suddenly feels like shards of ice are trying to slice through the skin and broken bone, all the way up to his throbbing shoulder. The flesh is burning cold and feels like it might be wrapped too tightly over his bones.

The qiqirn makes a new whining sound low in its throat and the cold gets ten times worse and Dean feels about ready to pass out.

Dad said he was going to be his backup, Dean remembers and shoots a quick, panicked glance across his shoulder. Dad is standing rigid against the backdoor of the Impala, effectively blocking Sam's view from the inside. He has a death grip on the flamethrower and a giant iron dagger in his right hand, but he isn't making any move to venture over and give Dean a hand anytime soon.

His lips are moving though and Dean is vaguely aware that he should be able to make out his dad's voice, hear _something_, but everything gets drowned out by the sound of blood rushing though his ears and the qiqirn's furious howling.

Dean needs to end this. Now. Because he's pretty sure that he doesn't have much time left before he embarrasses himself even more and actually faints.

One last look at Dad. Still not able to hear one fucking word he's saying. Just pretend it's something encouraging, okay? _C'mon, son, you're almost there. You're doin' real good. The sucker doesn't stand a chance against you, dude._ There you go.

John has spent a good portion of his life locking away his heart behind a series of iron clad walls. It's what made him get through Vietnam, helped him keep on living after Mary. It's what makes him a great hunter and most of the time a piss poor father. Right now though, it's saving his son's live. Because if John let his feelings get the better of him for just one second, he'd be across the meadow, wrapping his terrified kid in a giant hug and send the motherfucking dog on its way to hell. And then Dean would be safe for all of one day and then he'd lose his arm and it'd all be John's fault for being too damn emotional. So he digs in his heels and holds on to his emergency weapons and yells over the qiqirn's ruckus for Dean to keep going.

He watches as Dean bends on trembling legs to pick up his lighter from where he dropped it on the ground. The boy takes a shaky step towards the trapped spirit, then another. It takes him several tries to open the Zippo and keep the flame burning in the ice cold wind. The qiqirn yelps a terrified bark, realizing that it can't escape, that its prey has finally gotten the upper hand. Dean throws the Zippo on top of one of the gas drenched hemlock branches and for a few moments the world is engulfed in the dying screams of the burning spirit and John feels his feet running in the direction of the black, burned circle on the ground before he ever makes the conscious decision to do so.

Within seconds he's at his boy's side. He is lying on the ground, curled into a tiny ball, shaking, clutching the arm that is still trapped inside the sling.

John tries to get him to sit up and gets a quiet whimper and more trebling in return. He scoops the bundle that seems entirely too small to be his brave, almost grown soldier up in his arms and impossibly, the weight seems even lighter than last night.

Once they have reached the safety of the Impala, John manages to coax Dean into uncurling enough to get rid of the sling and bloody bandages. Other than that, Dean's eyes stay closed, his mind somewhere between passed out and too terrified to move.

Sam turns on the headlights and scrambles out of the car to clutch his brother's good hand.

John takes in the state of his kid's arm in the new bright light and he figures there's enough damage to make even the most hardened of warriors pass out. Much less a seventeen-year old boy. The stitches from last night have been ripped out of the skin in all but two places. Blood is running down the arm again, but they'll deal with that later. The banishing ritual has gotten rid of the curse, but it hasn't undone the damage that has already happened. The flesh looks dark and dead in some places. They'll have to cut it out. In the same places the blood has already turned into ectoplasm that is, now that the qiqirn is dead, oozing lazily out of the open wounds, leaving behind sickening, black trails down Dean's arm.

Sam is babbling again and John works on ignoring him. Dean is fine. His arm is fine. Well, a little south of fine, but it'll get there.

John wipes away all the ectoplasm he can reach and empties another flask of holy water over the open wound, relieved when this time there is no burning, hissing flesh in response.

Dean's eyes flutter open while John is working on resetting the sling. Green orbs, clouded and glassy with exhaustion and fear and pain. Delirious doesn't even begin to describe it.

"'m sorry…" He mumbles, voice so much like a little kid, John feels his heart get ripped to pieces. "s'll my fault…"

"No" John all but shouts, clutching his boy against his chest. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no. It's okay now. You're okay."

He figures he's sending mixed signals to the kid what with what he told him just an hour ago, but he couldn't give a fuck about that right now if he tried.

Why is it that he can only show affection to his boys when they are dying or out of their minds with pain? Something to do with that whole locking away his heart business he guesses. Well, if that's the case then he might as well go full out while he's at it.

John scoops him up again and deposits Dean on the backseat, wrapping their blankets tightly around him.

"It's okay, Dean-o. You did real good."

Dean makes a sound that's vaguely reminiscent of a content, sleeping child and what the fuck if John presses a quick kiss on top of the kid's head. The short locks haven't seen a trace of hair product in days and except for the part behind his left ear, where it's all spiky and dark with clotted blood, it feels soft and fair and slightly curly and _Mary._

John gives him a last pat on the cheek, then follows Sam into the front seat and John turns the key in the ignition. Sam has put in a Black Sabbath tape. That's certainly a first.

It's straight back to the crappy rented house, John decides. Put the boys to bed, cover Dean in any and all available blankets, smother him with M&M's and chicken broth and hot chocolate once he wakes up, take care of the arm again and then get the fuck right out of fucking Alaska.

John has had enough of Alaska to last a lifetime. The boys pretty much had enough of Alaska the moment John announced they were going there.

"Hey, kiddo" John whispers, turning around, one hand on the steering wheel eyes on the backseat (because it's nobody's fucking business how he decides to drive on deserted back roads.) "Caleb's working a poltergeist gig in Venice Beach. Waddaya say?"

And Dean smiles that bright, though slightly loopy, smile of his that says 'Sun? Beaches? Chicks in bikinis? Where do I sign?'

He shivers slightly and shifts under his blankets and starts humming along to 'Fairies Wear Boots'.


End file.
